


Running Headlong into the Night

by eternalsojourn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Con Artists, F/M, M/M, aristocrat!Mal, bisexual!Eames, rarepairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 13:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2624000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/pseuds/eternalsojourn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mal is a socialite in 1920's Paris. Eames is a con man of less than ideal means. Both fans of decadent living, they hold pleasure in highest regard, for each other and for the finer things in life. Mal helps Eames to pass as a socialite and together they fleece Paris's elite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Headlong into the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dans La Soie (Eames/Mal)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/83456) by kateison. 



> Direct link to inspiring artwork: [Dans la Soie](http://kateison.livejournal.com/101218.html) by kateison  
> Betaed by the fabulous achaostheorem and nightreveals, the aces up my sleeve.

Mal lifts a glass of champagne off a tray from a passing waiter and casts her gaze over the crowd. Clusters of people dot the room, dresses and jewels sparkling as brightly as the chandeliers and cut crystal glasses. There’s a steady hum of voices matched with an unobtrusive string quartet giving the impression that the chatter is following its graceful rhythm.

She spots the Vicomte de Charentes amid a fawning crowd and allows herself a secret smirk before brightening it to something broad and brilliant as sunshine. She swans in and places a gentle hand on his arm.

“Henri! How wonderful to see you!”

A few of the people wander off, sensing their chances of capturing the Vicomte's attention are lost. The rest smile politely at her. Mal absorbs the sideways glares, the envious glances, and genuine smiles with equal gratification.

After a few pleasantries, Mal leans in and whispers conspiratorially, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I heard Edward Lewis is making an appearance here this evening.”

The effect is immediate and Mal covers a smile with a sip of her champagne. The mention of the notoriously reclusive London artist has some agape, a few actually gasping. The Vicomte's eyes flash with a mixture of awe and jealousy that Mallory knows something so juicy before he does.

“I heard he turned up unannounced at Juliette Godard's cocktail party last year,” says a tall, willowy man.

“No, no, Gérard said that never happened,” says one woman, fingering the jewels at her neck. “She invited him but of course he never went.” 

Mal waits until everyone is ensconced in rumour and speculation before touching the Vicomte on the shoulder lightly and excusing herself. He gives her a glance in acknowledgement, but she sees his eyes flitting around the room looking for someone to share the news with before Mal can tell anyone else. She slips away.

After a bit of mingling, and once she’s certain the news has trickled around the room, Mal spots Lady Genevieve DesRosiers leaving a circle of people surrounding their host Francois Fauré. Mal approaches her quickly, picking up another glass of champagne on the way and handing it to her smoothly.

“Darling, I was hoping to see you. You look divine!”

“Mallory! I’m surprised to see you here. I haven’t seen you since, what was it? The Vicomte’s party last autumn?”

“Yes, I think that was it.”

“So what’s been keeping you away? Any truth to these rumours I hear of a torrid love affair?” Genevieve’s voice drops to something conspiratorial, though Mal knows better than to confide in her, twenty years of friendship or no. Still, it’s a rumour Mal can spin.

“Oh, perhaps briefly. I was lucky enough to meet Edward Lewis some months back. Though I’d hardly call it _torrid_.” Mal’s little half-smile is all she needs to convey that ‘torrid’ is exactly what it was. 

“I’ve never met him. Is he handsome?”

“Mmm,” Mal’s expression goes distant, remembering — genuinely — Eames’s face. “Would you like me to introduce you when he arrives? You can ask him about his latest work. He doesn’t ordinarily appear in public, as you know. But with this stunning new work, he’s making some appearances to promote himself. He does hate that sort of thing — crowds, you know. But perhaps you could show him the gardens, make him more comfortable.”

“I’d be delighted to,” Genevieve says, biting her lip against an unseemly grin. “Oh my, is that him now?”

They turn to the commotion at the door. 

*

Five Hours Earlier

Eames stands rolling a cigarette, eyes flicking between his fingers and Mal's face as she applies lipstick at her dressing table.

“That's one of my favourite things,” he says.

“Rolling cigarettes?” she asks, pressing her lips together.

He grins, tongue touching the edge of his teeth. “You,” he says. “Putting on makeup. It's so precise and delicate. It's like the only person aside from me who knows every angle and curve of your face is you.”

She turns her head, sizing him up. “You'd be very pretty. You should let me do yours someday.”

They laugh but he nods. “Maybe,” he says.

She tugs him down into a kiss, smearing her lipstick but neither seem to care. It's deep and wet; they taste each other like the first course at a feast.

When it finally breaks, her hand is on the back of his neck and they're both a bit breathless.

“You really oughtn't carry on like this with me,” he says, nosing along her cheek towards her ear. He touches his tongue to her ear lobe and runs it lightly up the curve.

“Men always like to tell me what I ought not to do, as if I can't decide for myself,” she replies as she stretches her neck in blatant invitation.

He doesn't accept, withdrawing just far enough to look her in the eyes.

“This is not just an affair. Your family would be furious, but they'd forgive you. After tonight, though, they'll disown you. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

Mal looks at him, searching. “Of course I do. Have I ever given you reason to doubt?”

“No, I just don't want to take everything from you. If we do this, you could lose everything.”

“Thank God,” she says. “That's the best reason I've heard.” She stands and pushes him back a step. Running a pair of fingers underneath his lapel she drags her gaze down his body and then up to his lips. “You look perfect, Adrian. You wear this suit like you were born to it. Maybe we were each born to each other's family.”

Eames laughs. “You say that as though you're ill-suited to the parties, the dresses. The wine.”

She smiles and trades the lines of his suit for the curve of his jaw under her fingers. “True. I do like the wine. And the dresses. I could do without the vacuous gossips.”

Eames slips his hands up her arms, easing one strap off her shoulder. “Hush now. We need those vacuous gossips today.”

“Mm, they'll be useful for a change,” she says, and flicks open his top button.

“We should get going,” he says, but his gaze is heated and he has one heavy hand on her hip.

“It's early. No one shows up _on time_ , don't be absurd.”

“How silly of me,” he says and kisses her hungrily, pulling her body into his.

She presses herself into him, sliding one leg between his and pressing up her thigh, making him groan. He suckles her lower lip and gathers her dress hem up in his fingers before pushing her back onto the bed.

Slipping off her panties, he settles himself between her legs and allows his weight to press her down just a little. Her hand makes a mess of his hair as they kiss, the other pulling him close by the waist. She arches up into him and he growls low in his throat.

“You're insatiable,” he accuses, and she laughs.

“But of course. To suggest that I'm satiable would be to suggest that there would be a time that I'm finished having you. I can't imagine that ever happening.”

“Well, far be it from me to deny you, then,” he says, eyes twinkling. He moves down while sliding a broad palm up her inner thigh, gliding over the boundary between silk lace and skin.

He pushes her dress up out of the way and spreads her legs, nosing into the crease at the top of her thigh. He kisses her there, soft and sweet, then again on the other side, and again on the mound of flesh, her hair damp and soft. His tongue soon follows, tasting her like he does her mouth, exploratory and savouring. His fingers push in, easing in and out by degrees until she's practically writhing with the need to have him deeper.

“You’re such a tease,” she says, hands gripping the coverlet.

“I just like to hear you scold me for it,” he says, sinking in to the knuckles and fastening his mouth over her clit with gentle suction. She gasps and her feet press into the bed, lifting her hips to meet him.

He licks and sucks and rubs and twists until she's nearly sobbing and his hands and mouth are glistening. When she comes, it is with abandon, crying out “Adrian” and thumping her fist once, hard, on the bed.

He comes up to kiss her and she sucks the taste of herself off his lips while he sinks his cock into her. Together they rock and thrust, slow and steady but building to a frenetic dance punctuated by soft grunts and staccato pants. The rustle of rich fabrics rubbing together is a susurrus whisper: a lover’s declaration.

Afterwards they lay together on their sides, brushing hair off their foreheads and trading lazy kisses.

“Is this fashionably late enough?” he asks.

“Not quite. We'll share that cigarette,” she says and rolls off. She misses his adoring gaze, but then he misses hers as often.

As they smoke, she straightens his clothes and he smooths down the lines of her dress, front and back.

“Should I be targeting anyone in particular?” Eames asks, blowing a smoke ring and watching it dissipate.

“I think those who are amenable to your charms will make themselves known easily enough,” Mal says. “I’ll delicately suggest to some of them that we’ve had a ‘mutually beneficial relationship’. I think you’ll have more of them approaching you than you know what to do with.”

Eames frowns at himself in the mirror, straightening his jacket. He adjusts his posture, changes his expression, and nods at himself as though in greeting.

“Incredible,” says Mal.

“Mm?”

“It’s like you’re a different person when you do that. You’re a wonderful actor. You should try the stage.”

Mal stands behind Eames, looking past him at his reflection in the mirror.

“The stage doesn’t pay as well, darling.”

Mal laughs and sits at the dressing table once more, and begins to re-apply her lipstick.

“Like this, Adrian? Is this what you like?”

“It's Edward, darling. Edward Lewis.”

She grins at him in the mirror.

*

“You'll come on the 13th of September, yes?” says the Vicomte.

“Of course. How could I say no to such a generous patron? I had no idea you were such a fan of my work,” says Eames. He lets his gaze linger for a second too long on the Vicomte's lips, and sees the moment the man is his.

“I could... discuss this upcoming party further if you like?” says Eames. “Perhaps a stroll in the garden?”

Outside there are lamps strung above the path they tread slowly. Around a bend is a bench under a trellis bursting with wisteria. It is there that Eames steps in, almost shyly, and brushes his fingers along the Vicomte's knuckles. Henri captures Eames's fingers and steps in close enough to kiss.

Eames allows it for a moment, just a ghost of a touch, then pulls back.

“Actually, I'm embarrassed to admit it, but...” he trails off, looking pained.

“What is it?”

“I... I haven't the funds to remain in Paris until September. While I would love to come to your party, I fear I must return to London..”

“Oh! Oh dear,” says the Vicomte.

Eames presses his lips together, then leans in, as though on impulse, and slots his mouth against the Vicomte's. He pulls away.

“Sorry,” he says.

“No! No, it's all right. Perhaps I could give you enough to smooth your way. In exchange, perhaps you could show me this new artwork of yours?” 

“Yes, of course! Of course I would show it to you. But September is a long way away. I would need to secure a place. And of course there would be incidentals...”

“Don't worry about a thing,” says the Vicomte, claiming another kiss. He presses some bills into Eames's hand. “I can give you more at my house. Would you care to come by for a drink tonight?”

“I would love to,” says Eames, and this time his kiss is deep and hungry. “But I can't this evening. Could I stop around in the morning to get the rest? And then when I've secured an apartment, I'll call you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes,” says the Vicomte, disappointed. “Yes of course.”

Another sweet kiss and Eames pulls the Vicomte back towards the house.

*

“Edward, darling!” Mal says as Eames enters the ballroom, the Vicomte trailing a few steps behind. “You simply must meet our host, M. Francois Fauré.” She holds the host lightly by the elbow and pulls Eames in. The Vicomte flashes her a smile that is all daggers and turns away.

“Mallory was just telling me that she knew you, and I demanded that she introduce me at once,” says Francois, smiling as though he'd just told a wonderful joke. Mal laughs like the tinkle of crystal and Eames chuckles warmly.

“Please, let me give you the grand tour,” Francois, sweeping his hand in the direction of the doors. They follow, allowing themselves the only conspiratorial glance they've shared since Eames arrived.

The host walks them through a grand library, expounding on the rare volumes his family acquired over the generations. They pass through an enormous drawing room with heavy brocade curtains and a grand piano. “I've never played myself,” their host says. “I never had the patience for it.”

Finally he leads them into a gallery, airy and bright when he turns on the lights, though the night beyond the tall windows is black.

“I'm terribly interested in this latest work you've been painting,” says Francois.

Eames shoots Mal a faux-scolding look. “Has a little bird been whistling tales?” he says. When Francois looks away, Eames’s expression turns to one of genuine esteem. Mal’s look is eloquent, summing up her pride in herself at exploiting the opportunity for a bigger con, and the challenge she’s laying down for Eames by upping the ante in this game they’re playing.

“Oh no, I'd heard before of course,” says Francois, though of course that’s impossible. “I simply must know. What is it?”

“I don't discuss it normally,” says Eames. “But champagne has always loosened my tongue, damn the stuff. That's why I don't usually attend parties.”

They share a laugh and Mal begins to walk them slowly around the room, admiring the eclectic array of paintings.

“It's a slight departure from my usual style,” continues Eames. “Or rather, it's the next natural stage of what I've been doing. I do dislike using such terms, but if pressed, I'd say this might be my masterpiece. If I haven't jinxed myself by saying so.”

Behind Francois, Mal is the very picture of glee, though the expression disappears off her face the instant before Francois turns around.

“Always so modest,” says Mal. “He's absolutely at the top of his career, M. Fauré. This work will be a defining piece in the art world.”

“Really?” says Francois, avarice making his eyes gleam. “Tell me, what are your plans for it? Gallery? Private collection?”

“The Tate has expressed interest,” says Eames, looking away as though embarrassed. “To be honest, I'm not certain that's my preference. I like to have relationships with the owners of my works. That personal connection feels more like a conversation.”

“That's lovely and admirable,” says Francois, stopping his movement around the room. “Tell me, what do you think of my collection?”

Mal glances at Eames, worry pursing her lips. Eames flashes her a reassuring look and turns his attention to the wall.

“Eclectic,” Eames begins judiciously. 

Francois nods, but his eyebrows flick up in a suppressed sigh of disappointment.

“You appear to choose pieces that aren’t emblematic of the artist’s signature periods,” Eames says, and Francois stands up a little straighter. “Like this one here. Mele’s work is usually much more expressionistic, but for a time he experimented with this more restrained, intellectual style. I’ve not heard many speak about this period, yet this particular painting sits comfortably in your collection.”

“Yes,” says Francois, moving in closer. “Precisely. And this one here, the artist moved to Indonesia and for a brief time incorporated some of the indigenous elements into her work. It was striking, if short lived.”

“I noticed that. Beautiful,” Eames says, reaching out to trace the air in front of the work, a graceful line.

“So few people really appreciate the work that goes into a collection like this,” says Francois as he folds his hands behind his back as his eyes dance from painting to painting.

“So few people appreciate the visual language enough to treat collections as more than just an investment,” replies Eames, stepping in to close the space between them just a fraction further. “It’s always so gratifying knowing one of your works is in the hands of a true connoisseur.”

“Mm,” says Francois. He flicks a sideways glance at Eames. “This piece that you’re working on: would you consider, perhaps, a private buyer here in Paris?”

“It has always been my favourite city,” Eames says with a knowing smile.

“I won't mince words, M. Lewis. We can speak plainly here, I think? Yes. Were I to provide a deposit: say, fifty percent of its total value, a security you understand...”

Eames widens his eyes. “That is very generous for an incomplete work, Monsieur.”

“I believe in supporting the artists, M. Lewis. The patron-artist relationship is not what it once was, but if this would secure me the option for a future commission.”

“That is incredibly generous of you, and a fine offer. I just don't know, it's rather unusual...”

“Unusual doesn't frighten me. I could pay you this evening.”

Having stepped away to give them a modicum of privacy, Mal stands in front of an unknown portrait with her hands clasped behind her back. She grins to herself.

“Well then, M. Fauré. I believe we should shake on the beginning of a mutually rewarding relationship,” says Eames, extending his hand.

Francois shakes it heartily, unutterably pleased with himself.

*

Mal excuses herself to powder her nose and let Eames complete his task of making small talk with their host. The string quartet is setting their instruments down for a break before their final set, and there’s a collective breath in the room in which people decide whether to stay or leave for the night.

For her part, Mal accepts another champagne from a waiter — her last, she thinks — and takes a quiet moment to look around the room. A few people have arrived since she left for the grand tour, and more have left the party, leaving the room emptier than it was though the party is still some hours from dwindling to a finish.

The conversation beside her is the usual drivel, and she moves away with equal parts exasperation and relief, knowing she’s soon leaving this life behind her. She drifts by a group of people she knows only peripherally and catches a few words that halt her in her tracks.

“Is Edward Lewis still here?” says a man whose voice Mal barely recognizes. She thinks it might be one of the Vicomte’s friends. “I met him once, briefly, at a gallery opening in London.”

It’s possible he’s lying, but he says it without the bravado she usually hears from this crowd. She drifts closer.

“I didn’t think he attended gallery openings,” says a woman in the bored voice of the perpetually unimpressed.

“Oh, this was a long time ago. Back before he was big and crowd-shy. Fifteen years ago? If he’s still here, I’d love to pay my regards. I still regret not buying one of his works back then.”

Mal’s blood runs cold. Fifteen years is a long time, but she’s willing to bet that Eames looks little like the famous artist. She glances at the door to the adjacent hall, through which Eames and Francois will be entering at any moment.

Sure enough, she catches a glimpse of shadows coming down the hall, and she springs into action.

Mal steps smoothly into the crowd, right beside the Vicomte’s friend and looks up at him while touching his arm, drawing his attention to her completely.

“Henri deserves a scolding for not introducing us sooner. Hello! I’m Mallory.” She subtly steps back and around a half step, forcing the man to turn his back on the door through which Eames and Francois are coming.

“A pleasure,” says the man politely. “Michel.”

Mal can see Eames and Francois enter the room and several people move towards them. Eames scans the room looking for Mal and when he spots her she gives him a tight smile over Michel’s shoulder and flicks her hand towards the exit before pretending to remove a stray thread from Michel’s shoulder. Eames nods curtly, though Mal sees it only peripherally.

She continues to make conversation but after a few minutes it’s clear that she’s losing Michel’s attention. She can see him beginning to turn away, eyes flitting around the room. Eames is clearly trying to extract himself but hasn’t quite managed it yet.

“Did you know Edward Lewis is just about finished his masterpiece?” Mal says in desperation. She had hoped to steer the conversation away from the artist in question but if she can just distract Michel for a few more minutes, that might be all Eames needs to leave the room.

“Is he?” Michel perks up at last. “I didn’t know he was working on one. I rather felt he hadn’t fully explored his current period, though I’m no expert.”

“Oh yes!” Mal says, realizing suddenly how little she knows about art in the face of someone with a genuine interest in it. She recalls some of Eames’s own words. “I hear it’s both a natural extension of his current phase, and the next progression from it. It’ll be quite a statement in the art world, I think. Although it sounds like you know more about contemporary art than I do. What direction do you think he’s going in?”

That’s all the invitation Michel needs to expound on his rather lengthy feelings on the subject, and Mal breathes a sigh of relief into her glass and she nods along as though rapt. When she sees Eames slip out the door, she gives the conversation a few more minutes, then startles visibly.

“Oh dear, I think I see Genevieve about to leave. I’m so sorry, Michel, it’s been delightful speaking with you, but I simply must say goodbye to her.”

Michel looks ruffled at being interrupted, brow furrowing and shoulders tensing, but he nods curtly. “Yes, well. It was nice meeting you. Mallory, was it?”

Mal smiles indulgently, then slips away, smile dropping away the second her back is turned. She can hardly make her way to the cloakroom fast enough.

*

Eames and Mal run down the road, laughing, stumbling, and alternately dragging each other along.

“That could not have gone smoother,” says Mal.

“It was bold, I wasn't sure we'd pull it off,” says Eames. “For a beginner, you have the most wonderful ideas.” He stops and pulls her to him in an embrace, gazing down at her adoringly.

“It was far too easy. Next time we should aim higher. How many did you manage to convince to have an affair with you?” She slides her hands under his jacket, warming herself against him.

“Five. They carry an absurd amount of money around with them for attending cocktail parties,” he says.

“If they were poor, they'd all be crazy. It's only because they're rich we call them absurd,” she laughs.

“I believe they prefer 'eccentric',” replies Eames.

She laughs into his mouth as their lips meet, Paris aglow around them and the Seine glittering below.

***End***


End file.
